


much of glory and ecstasy

by meritmut



Series: i loved you well, when we were young [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Yikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meritmut/pseuds/meritmut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terrible awful overwrought sex in a storm, courtesy of Loki's internal monologue and Sif being radiant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	much of glory and ecstasy

Rain and fierce winds batter the city, the storm blows to a crescendo, and high above the sprawling golden capital with its empty streets and its overflowing rivers, Loki lets a grinning Lady Sif into his rooms.

He stands patiently, waiting for her to make the move they both know is coming. She’s been on edge all day, casting him dark glances filled with promise and longing and pushing the limits of his self-control with the restraint it took to keep his hands at his sides, fingers itching to glide across her skin, and let her pass him by without dragging her off to some lesser-frequented corner and relieving her tensions the old-fashioned way.

Her eyes flick to the balcony and the maelstrom beyond and her lips curve upward, calculating, as her gaze moves back to Loki. By the time she has her sights on him, his smile mirrors her own. He tilts his head slightly, inscrutable and ever devious.

And Sif -

\- walks away.

Slow, deliberate steps take her out onto the terrace and into the howling storm that rages all about, whereupon she turns back to Loki and continues to simply smile at him. _The tease._ The rain soaks her in an instant and streaks her long hair to her face; her thin robe caught between sticking to her skin and flaring out in the wind as she holds out an imperious arm and crooks her hand to summon him, still wearing that blood-hungry smile.

Sex in a tempest. Not something he’s ever done before, but let it never be said that Loki is averse to new things.

They move together in a whirl of hunger and it’s no coordinated dance of hand and mouth and skin: there’s no elegance to the taut lines of Sif’s body as she arches up from the worn stone where rainwater pools like spilled ink, to fit herself to the curve of him and offer up an ungainly clattering kiss; no love to it but pride and cruelty and _you are mine, you are **mine**_ in every touch. 

He kisses back as fiercely as she, taking all she invites him to with her white-toothed smile and the agonisingly slow movements of her body against his, and it clings with longing, the kiss, demanding and hard and the most unchaste thing Loki’s ever felt (unholy, a word he’s never thought before yet fits an image to now, the sight before him as he rests on his elbows and looks down upon her splendid unclad form). 

She - dauntless bastion of silver-skinned godhood, immortal blood boiling in her veins and the strength of the roots of the universe winding in her long limbs - she is the bringer of the glorious death yet all that glory is dashed to pieces against the broken stone of him and rebuilt in idolatry, in the irreverent and yet unutterably divine sight of her laid flat on her back in the freezing rain, her long thighs gripping his hips as her hard hands would seize upon a sword.

Beneath him she seems smaller, swallowed by the liquid darkness, but around him she is endless and she is more than enough to drown in.

 _This is deicide, this is - sacrilege,_ more words he’s had little use for until now but they fit well in a mouth that still tastes of between her thighs. His fingers curve along her jaw and push her head back so he can mark the hollow of her throat with his teeth and leave a memento on her tender skin like flowers in the morning, and through the singing rain that lashes them and soaks them both to the bone Sif lifts her arms around his neck to pull him close, and _laughs_ , and Loki all but succumbs there and then at the tremors of her body where it meets his (which is _everywhere_ , she paints the inside of him with light and he would make himself small enough to fit into her red heart if he could), at the slide of their hips, seismic shivers under skin slippery with rain and sweat and her mirth is echoed in the _boom_ of thunder overhead, and Loki thinks this is something they ought to have done centuries ago.

His lips follow the hardened slant of her shoulder as his hands find her wrists to lift and pin them to the ground, to keep her still beneath him in token of their eternal power play and tonight he’ll perform more than sacrilege, he’ll commit atrocities with his reckless mouth and this laughing cyclone in his arms but it will also be _good_ , it will be nothing more than the most natural thing in the world for him to serve her this way and he can live with a little of the profane staining his soul if it’s the price for hearing her sighing culmination unravel in the air like this.

He’s always thought it, but in the embrace of a storm this violent it seems more right than ever: Sif is galactic, a comet brought to life in the cataclysmic collision of stars and she was once light years away from anything Loki knew or ever thought he could know, but he strove to learn her anyway and adored her because he could never learn it all.

(Though he tries, he never stops trying, when in starless nights and nights all lit by the luminous oscillations of the cosmos he has moved against her and over her and _with_ her, and the alignment of their bodies made eclipses to cover more of the spreading sky than a thousand moons and suns had ever thought to, and before it is over he opens his hands to catch her as she shimmers and comes undone and falls to earth as light around him, and when she lay upon the ground and her sweat was on his skin and her hair curled wild and black as the primordial night that came before them, and her eyes were filled with a sleepy warmth before they closed a little while, when his arms for a fleeting passage of hours held up the sky in her form.)

When he holds her he is not Loki, she is not Sif, and yet they are nothing less than that and all they ever could be.

And the storm, well -

They are that too.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from James Oppenheim, specifically, _she in my arms is as much of glory and ecstasy that a man may hold. Wherefore paradise is unnecessary, and the flame of stars works no more transformations than the flame of her lips meeting mine, and the miracle of her actuality, her breathing flesh, and her contact with me, is as great a miracle as space may produce,and so far as I am concerned, a greater._
> 
> Don't look at me like that.


End file.
